It’s not the activity that bothers me. It’s what sports bring out in people that does. I’ve always hated arrogance—most of us do—but there’s something about watching someone smugly work out or play a sport with that performative “I’m better than you” energy that makes me want to punch an old person. (I know that’s dark—but still, it’s how it feels.)

And nowhere does that performative arrogance show up more hilariously and relentlessly than in pickleball. It’s like this game gave boomers a second chance at high school. A safe, low-impact ticket to relive their glory days in a public way. Finally, a sport where they can be both physically active and socially superior again.

I get it—there are real athletes out there who take it seriously. Some train, improve, compete, and even do it gracefully. This isn’t about them. It’s about the dozens of casuals I see laughing in this very specific, smug, patronizing way—like everything happening around them is beneath them, while at the same time clearly soaking up every second of praise and dominance they can squeeze from it.

It’s the body language. The exaggerated chuckles. The eye-rolls. The flexes masked as “oops.” The performance of humility laced with condescension.

It’s like age gave them a free pass to act like they finally figured it all out. But deep down, I can see it: a fragile, nostalgic child inside, still hungry for validation. Still trying to be the most-liked, most-feared, most-watched.
The sad part is—they could actually just enjoy themselves. Be goofy. Be present. Play for the love of movement and community. But instead, it becomes theater. A little ego parade with paddles.

If they could drop the act, maybe people like me wouldn’t be writing secret journal entries about them